All week I’ve been feeling a little throw uppy. People are reading my work. They are interacting with part of my soul. It’s like having your child up on stage and you’re hoping and hoping they don’t mess up. My adrenaline is pumping and I just can’t settle down. I’m forgetting things and acting slightly cray-cray!

And I’m not sure why. The feedback has been great. The book has been spotted in the carpool line, soccer practice and at a doctor’s office. But people keeping telling me they feel like I’m the main character. Well, I’m not Heather. There are some very obvious differences and then there are some striking similarities. Heather would have highlighted her own hair and exploded the bottle of hair color all over her bathroom like I did this weekend. I would trip on a run with a bag of dog crap in my hand just like Heather did. But, Heather’s every mom I know. Her friends and enemies are a compilation of those I know, what I hear and what I observe. And then it’s all exaggerated to make it more exciting. That’s what fiction is. An author writes what they know. Boy oh boy, do I wish I knew Adam Levine like Heather knows Peter. Sorry, Justin!

Yesterday, I was on the exercise bike reading O magazine and I read a quote that spoke to me and finally settled my stomach.

“It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly.”Theodore Roosevelt

I dared greatly. Thank you for embracing me. Thank you for holding me up. I can’t wait to do it again.

Jenni and I meet every Monday to discuss our writing. While we were writing our books we met and discussed plots. We exchanged chapters during the week and gave each other ideas. We hashed out words and ideas. We told each other what worked and what didn’t. We texted late into the night trying to help each other. We were pretty honest. The support was essential to the creation of our novels. We knew what the other person was trying to accomplish and we had to make sure it worked when they put the words on the page. Our books are a collaboration with our writing group, select group of readers and our phenomenal editor.

All that being said, our books couldn’t be anymore different. Well, that’s not entirely true. There are some similarities. The main characters are just about 40 and we each have a Peter in our story. Somehow we managed to name the main male character the same thing and once we settled on the names there was no changing them. We also shared the same editor and cover designer.

Jenni’s book is titled The Point of No Return. You will be on the edge of your seat until the very last page. Enjoy a little excerpt, then go buy it on Amazon.

PROLOGUE

He sat staring at the computer screen, mesmerized by the images. The folder of pictures contained hundreds, maybe thousands, of images of beautiful women — all sent to him, no one else, just him. He can’t help but feel a rush of power and excitement that comes from knowing these images are his alone, taken for him or by him.
His wife wouldn’t have dreamt of sending him pictures like this, even before her accident. She was too straight-laced and uptight to think about sending a provocative, sex-filled image of herself. Sometimes, though, he liked to lean back and pretend it was his wife on the computer screen in front of him. How different life would be, he thought, if his wife could send these types of images. Sometimes, he almost mourned the life he had lost, but then his mind replayed the phone calls, the Skype chats, the pictures and the excitement he felt at the thought of heading out of town for his business meetings. Any sadness he felt quickly faded into the background with the knowledge that his wife would never be the women in these pictures.
He has a new one now — a new addition to his collection. He calls them his collectibles. They are his beautiful, collectible dolls who become his playthings. He can justify them that way. There is no talk of love or a future — just play. Sometimes the playfulness can lead to physical pleasure but never love. He has some training to do with the new girl. In theory, she gets the concept of playing with him, but reality is a different matter. The email he got from her proved this point. She seems a little too naive, in a way, to adhere to his rules. She’s trying to set her own rules. Just for a laugh, he re-reads her email…
“You set down your ground rules. I gave you a sketchy outline of what expected, but you overwhelmed me a little with your rules. Sooooo, here are my ground rules. I’m (usually) a very honest person. This is all new to me. But I’ll be up front with you when things get overwhelming for me, which I’m sure they will.
Yes, flirt. Be fun with me. Have fun with me. I’ll do the same with you.
Being physical with you is something I can’t consider. Kisses lead to intimacy with me. Intimacy leads to feelings. Feelings lead to problems. I’m not interested in giving, or receiving, sloppy seconds.
So text away but they’re my rules now, Skippy. If you want to come along for a flirty, fun little time, jump on board. If my rules are too much, then you are free to go back to the way things were before. Friends always.”
Oh, she so doesn’t understand this is my game, and these are my rules, he thinks She will need to learn, and it will be so much fun teaching her. First things first, time to make the deal even more attractive. Time to get her number and make her part of his collection. He needs to add her pictures to his gallery.
He logs into Facebook and brings up the messages from the previous night. Hers are at the top of the list. Seeing she is online, he takes the opportunity to pounce on his latest prey.
Him:
Hey there. This is going to scare you, but I need you to call me. I have something I really need to talk to you about. My number is 523-732- 7462.
He waits for the immediate response she usually gives him. It seems like it is taking her an eternity to respond when he notices she is gone.
Him:
Oh, you’re gone…
With that, he switches gears. He is no longer a man on the prowl. He now switches to work mode. It’s time to make the money flow for himself and others. It’s time to work.

CHAPTER ONE
March 8, 2012
How did things get so bad? Ok, maybe bad is the wrong word. Maybe it’s just not what I expected. I have a good life, from the outside anyway. Anyone looking in would think I have the picture perfect world. My life makes me think of the song “He Thinks He’ll Keep Her” by Mary Chapin Carpenter. In the song Mary Chapin Carpenter talks about how the wife works to keep things looking picture perfect “spit and polish til it shines,” but she falls out of love maybe because of the monotony of her daily life. Or maybe it’s because she didn’t get much recognition for who she is as a woman and a lover, only as a mom and a wife. I think I’m becoming the girl in the song.
I know things aren’t really that bad. Garrett doesn’t abuse me or cheat on me (at least not that I know of). But we rarely talk anymore. The laughter is gone. It’s been replaced with apathy. Where there was once passion, laughter, and a shared ideal about building a life together, now there is only indifference. The TV is the moderator in our marriage. As long as the TV is on, there are no conflicts. I have to wonder how, with no work being put into our marriage, he thinks he’ll keep me.
I have to admit I’m partly to blame for all of this. I used to be the one to pick fights, to try and draw out what was wrong between us and fix the problems. But I got so tired of feeling like a nag and a shrew so I stopped. It was always up to me fix things between us. Garrett has always been happy to bury his head in the sand and let things go. In our early years, I brought up our problems to Garrett. He used to sit and talk with me. He wanted to look interested in fixing our issues, but things always went back to the way Garrett wanted them. If he wanted to fix things, he would fix them, but if they were my issues things always went back to the way they were before. It was exhausting and unrewarding work, so I stopped. I always hoped, though, Garrett would see how our marriage is becoming empty, and he would want to help fix things before it was too late.
I know things could be so much worse, and I feel like a shrew as I sit here thinking, “OH, woe is me!” So I’ll take a break from my pity party and try to focus on the positive. The kids are my positive and my world.
As long as I focus on them, life is more than bearable. The five of them take my breath away when I look at them. I am in awe of what a gorgeous young woman Christina is. At 16 she’s in charge of her world and not afraid to show it. It’s scary to think how confident she is. She’ll do big things in her life. Noelle, sweet little Noelle, with her halo of blond hair, she’s quiet and bookish unless she’s with Andrew. Andrew pulls her out of her shell. His boisterousness is combined with an unrivaled sensitivity. I love seeing them together. And the twins, Amanda and Chandler, crack me up with their bickering banter back and forth. Those two are like a little old couple. I am in heaven when all of them are around.
It’s really only Garrett. He’s the void. The empty space in my life.
If I let my mind wander back in time, my heart hurts. I see a man and a husband who used to think the world of me, but that feeling is disappearing day by day. The joy we shared together is gone. Life is flat. Our marriage is mediocre, at best, and teetering on divorce, at worst. Sometimes I wonder why, if it used to be so good, we let it get the point of being nearly irreparable. But then I remember the hurt, the pain from so many years of unresolved conflicts. I see the lack of trying, on Garrett’s part, to make things better. I feel I always come last with him.
Charley closes her journal, logs into her computer, and tries to drift back in time to happy days gone by. There is not much there, inside Charley’s heart, when she looks at pictures of their early days. Their wedding pictures used to fill her with delight, but now looking at them only serves to remind her she will never be able to compete with her mother-in-law. Will he keep me? Charley wonders out loud. Or is it too late? Charley’s mind starts to churn as words come spilling forth and she picks up her journal again and begins to write…
The QuestionsThe questions I have, there are so many.The answers ~ I’m afraid, right now, there aren’t any. They’ll come from within, only answered by me.Right now there is nothing for me to give, you see.My heart is so heavy, so hurt.Not a thing can be done for the pain to avert.Did I love you with all of my heart?Or did I just love the love the thought of “us” from the start? We seemed so perfect, so right.Everything was wonderful. You were my knight.Did I do the right thing?Did I just want a ring?Did I rush you?What did I do?I didn’t want to be alone.Oh, how I wish I had known.Was this the path I was supposed to choose?Or did I choose the path where we both lose?I don’t know which end is up or down.I feel I am ready to drown.This is not the right life for you or for me.This is not right, not for either to be.We are full of despair and not at all right.I want it back to when we filled each other with delight. We…
Charley puts down her pen. Will the “we” continue, she thinks. She puts away her journal, tucks the memories of the pictures into the back of her head and vows to shake off her mental whining.
Buy it here onAmazon

Here is the prologue to my new book…Tripped Up Love:

Prologue

Heather stood at the altar and read the eulogy. The eulogy for her dead husband.

I met Hank on the first day of kindergarten. He was building with the big blue plastic blocks and knocked them over on top of my head. I went to the nurse and got a boo boo sponge and Hank had to sit on a chair in the corner. We both ended up in tears. On the second day of kindergarten, I accidentally ate Hank’s snack. Meadows and Nester, our cubbies were right next to each other. So were our seats. We both ended up in tears, again. The alphabet pushed us together – Heather and Hank, Hank and Heather.

In first grade, we had our first sleepover and shared our first kiss under his bed. In fourth grade, we played Joanie and Chachi at recess. In seventh grade, I lip-synched “Let’s Hear it for the Boy” and dedicated it to Hank at the middle school talent show. In high school, he asked me to prom. I said no. Things got complicated. 

For 32 years, Hank was my life, my everything. I can’t remember my life before Hank. I can’t imagine a world without him in it. And he’s gone.

But, now, as I look at the faces he loved most, I know Hank is still here. Hayes has his inquisitive mind and all of his hair. Gracie has his eyes and relentless dedication. And Henry, he has his laugh and wicked sense of humor.

We lost the sunshine in our days, the cherry on our sundae, the strong arms that kept us safe and wiped away our tears. I lost my Chachi. We lost our everything.

She got through the entire thing without a tear, which was a minor miracle. But, Heather doubted there were any left anyway. The sun shining through the skylights made the tears streaming down everyone else’s faces glisten. She walked unceremoniously back to her seat in the first pew and sat next to their kids – Hayes, Gracie and Henry. She knew she would have to resume her position as rock of the family shortly, but for this moment she let the rest of her family and friends carry her. Jenny rubbed her back from the next pew back and her mom, who was sitting right next to Jenny, gripped her shoulder so hard Heather could feel nails digging into her skin. Her mother-in-law, Hank’s mom, sobbed as she held her head in her hands, but her father-in-law gave Heather a small smile and a wink. Lauren, Hank’s sister, gave her a sweet, tear-filled smile.

After the ceremony, Heather stood in the back of the church with the kids and shook the hands of all the mourners. The mourners needed to see Heather wasn’t going to crumble. They needed her to be strong, and they needed to see life could and would go on. It took every ounce of Heather’s strength not to fall down onto the floor of the church screaming. Her happily ever after was over.

Buy it here: Buy it here on Amazon

At 41, I don’t care about the roots that show in between salon visits. I don’t care as much about the veins on my legs that I’ve earned carrying four kids. I don’t care if there is a little jiggle when I walk, I won’t give up my chai or my beer. I don’t care about pretenses, I care about down and dirty love and friendship. I care about real and messy sprinkled with honesty.

At 41, I know where I’m going and honor where I’ve been. I don’t care about being seen, the next new thing or dancing till dawn. I prefer intimate gatherings, conversations under the stars and things that tickle my whimsy.

At 41, I know what is true and worthy. I can spot honesty and goodness a mile away and know that kindness is the only thing that matters.

At 41, I can look to the future with hope and a smile feeling the blessings of each and every day.

Dear Dad,

I got the proof of my book today. It will be published any day now. I want to dial your number and hear you on the other end of the line. I want you to congratulate me and tell me how proud you are of me. I want you to drive down to my book signing next week and make a long winded toast about how you always knew deep down inside that I would follow my passions. I want you to bring me tulips that match my cover and I want you to pick out the champagne for your toast. I want you to help talk to all of my friends at the party and I want you to help me with my marketing strategy. I want you to pat me on the back and ask me what’s next. I want you to present me with a letter at the end of the night written on a yellow legal pad. I want that letter to reveal some pieces of your life that still seem to be missing. I want you to drink too much and stay up all night talking to yourself. I want you not to be dead.

But you are dead and the hands on the clock can’t be turned backwards. But you’re not gone. You’re in the white spaces in my book in between the punctuation and the letters. You’re present on every page because you’re the one who pushed me to write. You’re the one who bought me the books and showed me the way. You’re the one who reminded me that even moms of four can make their dreams a reality. And you’re the one I was always so desperate to please that I would try anything, even writing a letter to the dead, to get you to say you were proud of me.

So here is this letter written on my iPad from my dark room while I should definitely be sleeping. A letter that popped into my head and forced me to write. A letter that really only needs two words…thank you.

When I first showed you some options months ago, I found that opinions vary. Ask 15 people and get 17 answers. One of the reasons I am self publishing is to have control of my vision. And this cover created by my fabulous “cover guy”, captures my message of whimsy and warmth like I never could have imagined. This is the full cover – the front cover, the spine and the back cover. The little white box is for my bar code. I have a bar code!!! Little things like that freak me out! I hope you enjoy it and fall in love with it just like I have. I hope it feels like a little ray of sunshine brightening up your day…because that is exactly what I hope my book does for you.

I just spoke with a friend who has been advising me during this whole writing process. She closed the conversation by telling me how proud she was of me for following my dreams. She said she remembered walking on the beach with me two years ago in Hilton Head when I told her I wanted to write a book before I turned 40. I was quick to point out that I will turn 41 in 9 days. I didn’t meet my goal but I came damn close. And I guess I am feeling pretty proud of myself. I can’t promise my book will be available on May 10th but it will be soon. I’m about to hand it over to Amazon and the release date will be out of my control. I know it will be available for your reading consumption shortly. My book has a cover. A cover that has stolen my heart. It’s quirky and whimsical just like me. I want to give you more details about why I love the cover so much but I don’t want to give anything away. So mum’s the word for the moment…

So, I’m accomplishing a huge, major, gigantic dream of mine before I’m 41 and it feels pretty incredible. But, I have to say I think a bigger deal should be made about 31, 41, 51 etc. The number 41 kind of stinks and feels just plain old. There’s no super duper roller skating party to look forward to (or to stress about). No girls weekend away to Wintergreen. 41 lacks the excitement that comes with a new decade. Maybe I’ll have to do something like go get a tattoo to jazz it up a little. Maybe publishing a book is my excitement this year.

Here’s to following your dreams and constantly creating new ones. Here’s to quietly and reluctantly turning a year older. Here’s to life and the whimsy of it all.

So, you all know the romantic interest in my book, Tripped Up Love, reminds me a lot of Adam. Well, while I was watching The Voice the other night I couldn’t help but think that Adam was acting just like my character, Peter. I want you to watch the clip and remember it when you are reading my book (you will have it within the next few weeks! Woohoo!!). Adam is Peter. Peter is Adam.

In this week filled with devastating world news and crazy kidstuff, I needed some happy. I won’t reveal how many times I have watched the clip but I will tell you that it inspired me to write today. I started the sequel and the first chapter is fuuuunnn! So, here’s a little happy for you. Maybe this week was a reminder to live in the moment and love a little harder. I’m wishing we didn’t need such cruel reminders.

Last night at a little after 8:00, I yelled, “Mommy is DONE!” In my defense, I have been single mommying it with Justin out of town (he’s back now, thank goodness!) and it’s baseball season AND both boys are playing baseball. Plus, it was parent-teacher conferences at preschool and I always get nervous talking to the parents. I can talk to the kids all day but my peers make me feel all shy. Anyway, my three little kids can’t reach the cups in our cabinet so they need help every time they want a drink. Yes, it would be smart to move the cups but I just can’t figure out the perfect spot. So, last night at a little after 8:00 after I had worked, fed all the people and animals in the house, prepped lunches, bathed little guys, done homework, gone to Target and helped Alex make life decisions, I was tired and could not get up again to get a cup. Because, I failed to mention, the only time anyone needs a cup is when I finally sit down.

I felt like an awful mom. So, I plopped down on the couch and Ethan brought over his Little Bear book and started to read it to me. Not to be outdone, Gigs got hers out and sat on the other side and read it to me. Simultaneous reading of two different Little Bear books. My terrible mom syndrome started to wear off. And it completely disappeared as I looked from the couch to the little girl sitting in the leather chair reading by herself.

See in these crazy, busy days it is so easy for me to lose perspective and to not see the big picture of parenting. But, unbeknownst to my Eva, she helped me feel better about everything last night. After the kids did their homework, we went to Target in search of sandals for the girls. Our weather has gone from snow to 90 in a week and their feet needed to be properly attired. They brought their leftover souvenir money from Chicago in case they saw anything they needed. As we were leaving, we walked through the girl’s clothing section and Eva fell in love with a dress. She found a long flowy, asymmetrical flower dress in her size. She looked at the price tag and went to her purse and handed me $25. Most of me wanted to pay for it but I could see how important it was to her to buy it for herself. So, I let her. This silly dress filled me with smiles because it was exactly like one I would have bought in my favorite little dress shop on Clark Street in Chicago.

But that’s not where the story ends. While I was reading with the twins, Eva wanted to pick a poem for her upcoming poetry slam at school. She said her teacher told her to stay away from Shel Silverstein because everyone would do it. Instead, Eva got out my Dad’s book of Emily Dickinson poems. She sat and read them and found some favorites. My heart started to get all melty while she read them to me. And then she got out A Child’s Garden of Verses and read the whole book. I told her they were Grandma’s favorites. I got out the quilt with all the poems on it that my mom made for Alex when he was little. And for at least an hour, until her little eyes couldn’t stay open, she went between Emily Dickinson and Robert Louis Stevenson. If I was a different mom, I would have made her stop and read her accelerated reader book. Thankfully I am not that mom…and could write a whole missive on the pitfalls of Accelerated Reader. Instead, I let her discover the joy of poetry…on her own.

Watching her helped me get my perspective back. It’s ok to get aggravated about the cups and to feel worn out and done. Because I realized they are getting something more from me. Something bigger and better than only my frustrations. I see my loves blooming inside of them. The things that make me tick make them happy. So, last night was about realizing that I shouldn’t feel so guilty when I feel done…I have to remember that love, especially my love for them, encompasses so much more than those little moments. And this crazy love I have for them, makes me feel done so much less than I would without them.